“Trousers!” yelled one member.
“Pants!”
“Breeches!”
By that time the voice came back—“to keep up his revenues,” said Gibson, glaring around at his tormentors.
Senator Tillman not long ago piloted a plain farmer-constituent around the Capitol for a while, and then, having some work to do on the floor, conducted him to the Senate gallery.
After an hour or so the visitor approached a gallery doorkeeper and said: “My name is Swate. I am a friend of Senator Tillman. He brought me here and I want to go out and look around a bit. I thought I would tell you so I can get back in.”
“That’s all right,” said the doorkeeper, “but I may not be here when you return. In order to prevent any mistake I will give you the password so you can get your seat again.”
Swate’s eyes rather popped out at this. “What’s the word?” he asked.